Drowning
by Max Alleyne
Summary: Something had broken inside him, and he was pushing—pushing her, pushing himself, pushing at universe—begging to be pushed back against. Tag to "Dark Side of the Moon," complete with lemon.


Castiel now understood why red was associated with passion—the young red-haired woman before him was eyeing him in a way that would be described as passionate, to say the least. His eyes were glued to her firm, muscular legs as he watched her spin circles around the pole, mesmerized as he watched her body contort in ways that he hadn't ever imagined a human body was capable of. If Dean were there, he would no doubt remark about her agility.

It's amazing that he was thinking about Dean even after the revelation that he had had. God had abandoned them, and he was thinking about how Dean would react to the lovely lady—a term used very loosely—in front of him. His faith had been shaken—no, not shaken, damaged beyond repair—and he was going to take the Dean Winchester approach to dealing. That is, ignoring it, trying not to think about it, drowning his sorrows in women and booze. Except that booze had no effect. Maybe women would work better.

He hadn't even been thinking as he found the nearest house of ill repute—not that distance would have mattered, he could be wherever he wanted in the blink of an eye. Well, everywhere except Heaven…not that he wanted to be there at the current moment. He had been thinking everything and nothing as he sat himself down at the nearest table and found himself entranced by the dancer in front of him.

She stepped down off the pole and settled on the arm of his chair, making an expression unmistakable even to him. She slid into his lap and pressed against him, and he felt Jimmy's body—his body—respond to her advances. He kept himself from looking into her mind—that hadn't gone so well last time he tried this—and instead focused on taking in the sensation. Her hands running over his chest, through his hair; her hips pressed against his; her breath against his neck as she pressed closer to him.

"Let's get out of here," she whispered in his ear. He nodded and let her lead him away, her tiny hands entwined with his larger ones. Electricity jolted through him at the touch of her skin on his. He didn't care that this was the last thing he should be doing right then, or that it was something that angels weren't allowed to do. God had broken the rules—he had given up on them—so he might as well follow his Father's example. If God was done with it all, so was he.

He didn't pay much attention to where she was leading him; he barely heard the room door close behind him. And then she was pressing him against the wall, kissing along his neck. He had never felt anything quite like it—it was an exquisite pleasure, and he let himself get lost in it. Before he knew it, his trench coat was on the floor and she was working at the buttons of his shirt. Instinctively, he began tugging at her tiny top, desperate for more of her. Within seconds, the top was lying across the room on the floor, along with his shirt. His pants and boxers followed shortly.

"I'm Emma," she whispered between kisses. He bit back a moan as she nipped at his collarbone.

"Cas," he answered, running his hands over her abdomen. He could feel her muscles tense beneath his hands as her breath came in short, harsh breaths. Her lips were too inviting, and he couldn't not kiss her. It was a long, rough kiss—demanding and domineering—inviting her to give back tit for tat. Something had broken inside him, and he was pushing—pushing her, pushing himself, pushing at universe—begging to be pushed back against. She didn't disappoint, matching him kiss for kiss and bite for bite.

Cas pushed her down onto the bed, pinning her naked body beneath his. He reveled in the feel of her against him, and wondered why the hell he hadn't tried this before. Dean had clearly been on to something. When he entered her, he wasn't gentle, but she didn't seem to mind. Rather, she was gasping in pleasure, pushing him to be rougher, to take more, and he had no trouble complying. He was going to leave fingerprint bruises on her wrists, her hips, her shoulders. Teeth marks on her neck. The sting of her nails digging into his back didn't faze him; if anything, it egged him on.

He felt her thighs tighten around his as he pushed harder and harder—the thin line between pain and pleasure blurring and then disappearing all together. The more acute the pain became, the better it was. With a strangled cry, he let everything go in a haze of pain and pleasure, and collapsed on top of her. She lay there quietly beneath him, aching and completely satisfied. Cas only felt empty.

As she slid into the oblivion of sleep, he lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The claw marks on his back were raw and bleeding slightly, but he didn't care. He didn't care that he, too, was going to have bruises in the morning. All he cared about was the aching emptiness inside him that wouldn't seem to fade. And if he wasn't careful, he was going to drown in it.

* * *

**Author's Note: **So, there you have it. My Cas tag to "Dark Side of the Moon." I won't lie, Cas's reaction to hearing God's message broke my heart, and his reaction was so human...so I figured I'd add a little more human-ness. Because, hey, who doesn't like Cas in a lemon-y situation? I have a vague idea of continuation, but it could also stand along. So, anyway, please review and let me know!


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